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TEMPTED.
ONE afternoon when Arthur and Frank were at the Zoological Gardens, and were sitting under a tree resting, Frank exclaimed:
"I say, Arthur, are all your folks teetotallers?"
"Yes," said Arthur.
"Are you?"
"Why, yes, I suppose so."
"Catch me," answered Frank. "Did your father make you?"
"No, not in that sense."
"Then why don't you do as you like, and come and have a glass of ale now?"
"I have never taken any in my life."
"Don't even know the taste? You are 'a ninny.'"
"I'm not 'a ninny,' but I would not take any for the world."
"Afraid of it?"
"No, I don't think so. But we will not discuss it, please Frank."
"Why not, if you're not afraid of it? What made your father a teetotaller?"
"He said it was the dreadful evil he had seen it grow to in his professional experience."
"Very likely, but everyone is not so silly; and I can't see why you should go without a pleasure and all that, just because other people abuse it. You won't take too much. Come along, I mean to have a glass; I'm awfully thirsty. You never signed, I suppose?"
"No; but I would not break my determination. You go if you like, Frank, but I shan't."
Frank laughed, and ran off towards the refreshment-rooms. He was gone some time, and Arthur had time to think. When Frank rejoined him he began again.
"Well, now I feel jolly; I am not thirsty, and I feel as refreshed as possible."
"So do I," said Arthur, smiling slightly.
"How?"
Arthur pointed to a water tap close by.
"Nonsense! that's a very different thing. But, seriously, Arthur, do you mean to be judged for and petticoat governed all your life?"
"No," said Arthur, frowning; "but in this matter it is no petticoat government; I have made up my mind."
"You are too young yet to know."
"Very likely; but let the matter be, Frank. In some things you know a great deal more than I do, and better too, I daresay, but not in this."
Frank waved his hand airily, and rose up to go to the monkey-house, and Arthur followed, all the stronger for his victory.
Had he not good reason for his determination? Had not there been a time, not so long ago, when he had come into his father's study and found him with his head buried in his hands? He would have drawn back, but his father beckoned to him, and made him sit down by him "while he told him a story."
"Arthur, my boy, there were once two friends. Both were brought up with equal love and tenderness; both went to the same school, and then to college; both had opportunities of knowing the will of God, and of doing it. One, thank God, though with many falls and falters, passed through the temptations of youth, and came out a happy, successful man; the other—is just dead.
"At college he was the best fellow going. He was full of fun and gaiety, and scorned the idea of living like a recluse, or not using 'God's good gifts' to the full. At first he meant no harm, and was sure he could keep straight; but there was a gradual change in him. He began to keep later hours; he was tempted into more company than he had time or money for; he was ridiculed at first for his moderation, but soon threw away all caution, and took as much as he felt inclined.
"True, he suffered for it bitterly. There were days of wretchedness and anguish, days in which he cursed himself for his folly; but the insatiable longing came over him again, and once more he fell into it.
"My boy, what his parents and friends suffered for him no tongue can tell.
"His companions laughed at him as a good joke; where they could stop short, he had fallen.
"After a while he did not care to see his friends, and I lost sight of him. By a seeming accident, I was visiting a patient in a lodging-house in the West End, and was asked by the landlady to step in and see another lodger, who was very ill.
"I did so; and there I found a dying man, this college friend of whom I have been telling you.
"He was dozing, and I sat down by his side.
"Presently he opened his eyes. 'You, Arundel?' he said, feebly stretching out his hand and holding mine in his weak grasp. 'Yes; you were right, and I was wrong.'
"'It is not too late,' I said to him.
"'No;' he answered. 'I am like the thief on the cross; I have looked and lived. I am like the prodigal son, who, when he had spent all, came to himself and went to his father.'
"Then, my boy, I bent down and kissed him; kissed that poor worn-out, prematurely old face, which I had loved in our youthful days; and we wept together such tears as men weep.
"He told me, when we could say anything, that while he had laid on this death-bed, words spoken to him long ago, entreaties long disregarded, Scripture despised and trampled on, had come up before him, and had stared him in the face.
"He told me how despair had held him in its awful grip, and then how one night he had, as it were, seen a battle, in which One had come out victorious—One mighty to save. This One had agonized for his lost soul. This One had even died for his lost soul; and now came to him with the signs of victory in His blood-stained hands, and said to him, 'I give unto them eternal life: and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'
"Then, Arthur, he told me he had believed that conquering One.
"He knew how degraded, helpless, wicked, he himself was, but here was One who said, 'No one shall pluck thee out of My hand;' and he laid his sin-sick soul in the hand of Jesus, and rested his weary head on the heart of Jesus, and was forgiven.
"This morning, my boy, he has gone to be with that Saviour who bought him; no longer defiled, miserable, sinful; but washed, renewed, victorious, through Him who died for him."
Then Arthur's father ceased. But once more he looked up in the boy's face—
"My friend told me to warn all, all, against this awful curse of drink.
"I have told you all this, Arthur, that I may warn you, my son. May God bless you and keep you."
Could Arthur forget this scene? Was not the memory of this crushed, wasted life sufficient to help him to keep his resolve?
* * * * * *
When they returned home from the Zoological Gardens that evening, Arthur was very silent.
Frank rallied him several times on his moroseness, but somehow felt it was a different sort of quiet from any of his previous fits of depression.
When tea was done, Arthur sought for his mother, and found her resting on the sofa in her room.
"May I come in and have a little talk with you, mother?"
"Oh yes, dear!"
Arthur sat down by her side and was silent.
"Well, my dear?" she said at last.
"Mamma, dear, I have something to tell you, and I don't know how to say it."
Mrs. Arundel put her soft hand into his, and with the greatest tenderness said, "What is it, my dear boy?"
"Mamma, I have been on the verge of—of—being tempted into actual sin. Oh, mamma, I thought I was strong! But—but—I did not know there could be so much wickedness."
"My child," said Mrs. Arundel, in a whisper of terrible fear, "What is it? What has tempted you?"
"It is nothing particular, dear mamma; it has been things Frank has told me of—things they do and say on board ship. Till to-day, I hardly guessed that he was trying to undermine my faith in you, and papa, and Ada; but this afternoon, a conversation we had put things in their true light. Oh, mamma, when I tell you that to-night we had arranged to go for a short time to the theatre!"
"My poor boy."
"We should not have been late. He promised to come away in an hour; but he said it was the late hours you and papa objected to; and somehow or other he made me feel it was only a lark, and not wrong. But I see it now; and think—just think!—if I had deceived you."
Mrs. Arundel pressed his hand closely, and he went on—
"Then he was always bringing up my love for you, and for Nellie and Ada, and making out it was 'petticoat government;' and I have been so cross and unhappy."
"Have you told me all the worst, dearest?" said Mrs. Arundel, very softly.
"Yes, mamma; the theatre was the worst. But somehow the stories he told me seem to feel the worst to me; and though I kept on telling him, I didn't want to hear, he only laughed and went on."
Mrs. Arundel laid her face on her boy's hand, and warm tears and kisses fell upon it. "My dear, dear boy!" she said.
"Do you think you will ever trust me again?" he asked, clasping her round the neck, and weeping.
"Indeed, indeed I shall."
"You must tell papa," said Arthur, in a low tone. "I do not think I can. But, oh, mamma, I am so very thankful I woke up in time."
"What made you think, dearest?"
"It was a story papa told me once; and when Frank and I were sitting in the Zoological Gardens to-day, it flashed across me, and all at once I felt as if I had been standing on the edge of a precipice without knowing it."
"Had you read your Bible as usual, dear, and prayed?"
"Well, I'm afraid not, mamma," he said sadly; "we were so late, and so tired, and he kept on talking all the time; somehow—"
"Yes, dear; I understand. Oh, Arthur, my child, it is a mercy that you have been saved. Now go down, my dear; it is getting late."
He put his arms round her, and kissed her over and over again. How thankful he was afterwards that he had made this full confession, and been forgiven.
"You do forgive me?" he said once more, coming back to her side.
"Yes, fully and freely, my dear, dear boy."
When Arthur re-entered the drawing room, Frank rose at once, and said aloud—
"Come, Arthur; I could not think where you were. You know you promised to show me Regent Street by gaslight."
"So late?" said Ada, looking up wondering.
"We shall not be long, Ada," said Arthur; then passing her, he added low, "Mamma knows."
When they slammed the front door behind them, Frank exclaimed irritably, "What a fool you have been; half our time is gone! I could not imagine where you could be. Come along; we shall have missed half of it!"
They hurried along for a moment or two, and then Arthur slackened.
"Too fast for you?" Frank asked, looking round annoyed.
"No," said Arthur; "but I am not going to the theatre."
"Not?"
"No; I have only come into the street to tell you so quietly. Frank, I'm afraid you have been trying to lead me into evil."
"Gammon!" said Frank.
"If it is that, I'll say no more," said Arthur firmly; "but I thank God He has shown me where you were leading me, and has stopped me in time."
Frank was going to add another angry word, but Arthur turned abruptly round and walked slowly home, followed, to his great surprise, by Frank.
"Look here," he said, as they came near home, "though you've turned coward, don't you go and tell."
"I've turned brave, and I have told," answered Arthur.
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SOWING AND REAPING.
WHEN they came in from their short walk, Arthur went at once in among his brothers and sisters; but Frank, full of wrath and ill-humour, ascended to his own chamber.
On the landing, however, outside Mrs. Arundel's door, he heard himself called.
He entered the half-dark room, where the moonlight streamed on to the floor, the same moonlight which at Shellford was flooding the sea with its silver light.
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He found her resting on the sofa, with no lightin the room but the moonlight which fell on her face.
"Did you call me, Mrs. Arundel?" he asked, with an uneasy tremor in his voice.
"Yes, my dear; will you come in? I want to have a little talk with you."
Frank felt very unwilling; but knew not how to refuse. He had always disliked meeting Mrs. Arundel's eyes, and generally avoided doing so; and now to be called into her room for a tête-à-tête was more than he bargained for.
He found her resting on her sofa, with no light in the room but the moonlight which fell on her face. He came in, and stood by her silently, more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life.
"Do not be afraid of me," she said, with a tenderness which was the more gracious, considering the blow she had just received through him.
"I am not afraid," he said, trying to put a brave face upon it. "What do you wish to say to me?"
"You have no mother, have you, dear?"
"No," said the boy, shortly.
"She is in heaven, is she not, Frank?"
"I suppose so," he answered. "My father always says so."
"You would like to meet her again some day, dear?"
There was a pause. Frank stood with his face in the dark, and Mrs. Arundel looked in vain; for she could not see it.
"I should like my boy to meet me," she said; "and I am thinking of your mother, Frank."
He steadied his voice, and answered coldly, "Well, Mrs. Arundel?"
"Well, my dear," she answered sadly, "'the wages of sin is death.' If you indulge in sin—God is not mocked—your wages will be death, eternal death."
The boy did not answer; but after a while said sullenly, "I did not know you had a sneak for a son."
"I did not know I had so noble a son. Do you not suppose, Frank, it would have been far easier to gloss it over? And even if he had repented of going to the theatre, to have avoided telling me?"
Frank was still silent.
"But now, my dear, I am not going to scold you; I had no such intention in calling you in. I want to speak to you as your own mother would have done, to help you if I can, to warn you of the danger, and to advise you to begin a new life. Come, dear, trust me."
She held out her hand, and the touching heavenly look on her face won the boy's heart, and he took her hand, saying huskily:
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Arundel; I am ashamed of myself. I did not think what I was doing."
He sat down by her; but was very silent after this confession, and Mrs. Arundel only answered by pressing his hand kindly.
Presently she said gently, "Frank, if you had a garden, and you planted a seed which you were told was deadly, would you expect it to bear good fruit when it came up?"
"Why no, I suppose not, Mrs. Arundel."
"And if you sowed a good seed, would you expect it, after a time, to come up and bear bad fruit?"
"No, I suppose not," still answered the boy.
"Well, that is just what the Bible says, 'God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.' If you sow now unholy thoughts and deeds, they will bear terrible fruit in your after life.
"I believe there is not a sin you commit now which will not, even in this life, find you out. I knew a boy who told me what his feelings were once, when he thought himself drowning. He was bathing, and the weeds suddenly wrapped round him, and in an instant pulled him under. As he sank, everything he had done in his life flashed across him in a moment of time. He saw deeds, which he had fancied harmless, in their true light, and he told me the instantaneous review was an awful thing.
"He did not drown; for the bottom of the pond was close under him, though he did not know it; but it serves as an illustration of what I mean.
"Would it not be safer, wiser, dear Frank, to obey God now, that you may reap life everlasting? You know it says, 'Thou shalt cast all my sins behind Thy back.'"
"You don't know how difficult it is, Mrs. Arundel," he answered in a smothered voice.
"Perhaps not wholly, dear, but I can guess and understand a great deal; our hearts are all the same, Frank, and I know what a hard fight it must be for you. But you will not be sorry in the end. The soldier who is victorious in the hottest battle gains the most laurels. There is always Christ, who will conquer for you, if you commit it to Him. He is the Captain of the Lord's host."
Mrs. Arundel said all this with extreme gentleness, but with a firm persuasion of its truth. The boy felt this, even while he still indulged his angry sullenness.
He rose at last, and said rather stiffly:
"You mean kindly, Mrs. Arundel, and I thank you. I will think it over. Good-night."
The next day, the moral atmosphere seemed clearer. Arthur had had a little talk with Tom, and had cheered him on his way. A few words of reminder as to how happy they used to be, and that they must not let Frank's coming disturb them, had set Tom thinking; and when once he began to think, he never stopped till he had set the thoughts in order in his mind.
"Mamma," he said, looking up in her face that morning, "I've been unhappy and fretful lately, but I've found out about it now."
"Have you, darling?"
"Yes; but He restores our souls, doesn't He, mamma?"
"Indeed He does, dear; but for that we should wander away."
"Yes, and so He's brought me to still water again, mamma."
Frank Compton left them soon after this, and sadly the memory of his visit remained. A painful memory to most of them; for, guarded as they had been, the world and the world's doings had been much shut out from them, and Frank had given them a peep into its wickedness. Arthur thought with thankfulness of what might have been, had he once stepped into the deception which Frank had been leading him to, and he shuddered when he remembered how near he had been to it.
Nellie's return home was now fixed for the next week, and all longed to have her presence once more. She wrote frequent letters, detailing all her doings, and told them of the proposed picnic. But while Nellie was in danger under Orston Cliff, another danger was creeping, unsuspected, nearer and nearer to that happy circle at home.
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CALLED HOME.
THE sun rose over Fairleigh the next morning after the eventful picnic with its own calm grandeur. There was no sign in its clear shining that it had set the night before on such a scene of danger to the circle of friends living at Shellford.
Nellie and Hope were seated at breakfast with old Mrs. Arundel, who was anxiously questioning them once more as to whether they were tired, or felt to have taken cold.
Nellie said she was quite as well as ever; but Hope, though she made the best of herself, could not hide that she was miserable and shivering.
"She was so long wet, you see, grandmamma; it is no wonder," said Nellie.
"My dears, why did you not come and tell me what danger you had been in, last night?"
"Dear grandmamma, we were dry then, and it was of no use giving you a sleepless night."
"I feel as if I might have done something for you, my dears; but, however, I thank God all are safe; I cannot be too thankful."
Before breakfast was over, Aunt Ruth entered, and begged to be told all about it. She had heard from the servant a word of the accident, and could not be satisfied till she knew all.
Her inquiries elicited that the young canoeist, who had saved so many of them, was staying at a village a few miles off; and that Wilmot would go over there to-day to call upon him and thank him.
"And how did they get off the rock?" asked Aunt Ruth, "I did not understand."
"Wilmot brought the boat round for them after we had been rescued," said Hope.
"Was it a large rock?"
"Only just room for them to stand, and in deep water. How horrified dear mother would have been, if she had been able to see little Mary standing there."
"It is often well we cannot see," said Aunt Ruth.
"And how did you all get dry?"
"It was a long job," said Nellie. "Mrs. Mansbridge put us all to bed at once. She had a roaring fire half up her chimney, and Mrs. Elliot and she stood and turned our things till they were fit to put on."
"Then did you have tea in bed?"
"Yes, dear mamma brought it to us. She did look so tired and wan before we all came down again."
"Your poor mother!" said Mrs. Arundel. "But how did you get home after it all?"
"We were very tired," answered Hope; "but mamma and Mrs. Mansbridge both said it would be really better for us to walk. Besides, we could not have done anything else, as there was no conveyance to be had. We all set out, and mamma drove. Fortunately there was a beautiful moon, and mamma told us to waste no time, but to press on as fast as we could. We walked along generally in a string across the road, hand-in-hand. I can't tell you how it felt, Mrs. Arundel; we all seemed so dear to each other, through having been companions in danger."
"I am sure you must," said Aunt Ruth. "How little we thought, as we were quietly reading and watching the sunset, what was happening to you all."
"I wish Hope would go to bed," said Nellie, as she saw her give another violent shudder.
"Oh, no," said Hope; "but I will have a shawl."
Before long, however, she was obliged to give in, and felt bed would be the best place for her.
Nellie went upstairs with her, and helped her to undress, and then made her as comfortable as was possible. She fetched a hot bottle for her feet, drew the blind partly down, and set some roses on a little table by her side.
"What a dear girl you are!" said Hope, gratefully looking up at her. "Where did you get those wild roses?"
"We picked them by moonlight last night."
"We? I did not see you picking any."
"No; you were in the carriage then; it was so lovely, Hope, just like daylight, only better."
Hope drew her down and kissed her. "Nellie," she said, "I think I am going to begin a new life from yesterday."
"Oh, dear Hope, how glad I am!"
"Yes; it was you first made me think about it. Aunt Ruth had often urged me to make a decision; but somehow I thought there was plenty of time, and that it was for older people. And then you came, and I found that, though you were young, it was like the air you breathed, you could not do without it! And then, Nellie, you asked me, that second day you were here, if I were a Christian?"
"Yes," said Nellie, blushing; "but I was dreadfully afraid you would be offended."
"That made me think more than ever; and when I began to know you, I longed to be like you."
"Dear Hope, not like me; I wish I were more like Him."
"Oh, yes! But still, Nellie, the face of Moses shone, you know, as we were reading this morning. You need not be ashamed, dear, but rejoice that it is so."
Nellie's eyes filled with tears. How unworthy she felt of the blessing which God had laid at her feet; and yet she had prayed that she might be a help to Hope, and here was her prayer answered.
"I am going to sleep now," said Hope, "so do go down and talk to Mrs. Arundel."
When Nellie re-entered the drawing room, her grandmamma and aunt sat in their usual places in the bow window. She thought they looked a little grave, but hardly noticed it. She carried her basket in her hand, and seating herself on a low chair close to them, prepared herself for a happy morning.
"How sweet it is," she could not help saying; then the idea of being sweet here, suggested those at home, and she added, "Have you heard to-day, grandmamma, from mamma?"
"I have heard from your father, dear."
Nellie looked up at the unusually quiet tone, and said quickly, "Are they not all right, dear grandmamma?"
"He says your mamma is not very well, dear."
"Not anything serious?" said Nellie, her heart going down like lead.
"Your father speaks seriously, dear," answered Aunt Ruth. "He says that he has been anxious about her for some time."
"Oh, auntie! And I never knew it."
"My dear, we cannot always know what will happen; your father could not bear to make you unhappy unless it were needful."
"I would not have come away for worlds," said Nellie, weeping.
"That has made no real difference, darling. We might always be thinking of difficulties in the future; and you will be strengthened to help by your change."
"But do tell me," said Nellie, looking up with an anguish in her eyes which was sad to see, "do you think—does papa think—that mamma is in danger?"
"He says there always is danger in attacks of the heart."
"I had no idea she was delicate."
"Had you not, dear? Yet no; your father says he fears it will be a great blow to you."
Nellie began to take in the gravity of the news; and her loving relatives were powerless to aid her in the sorrow which she must feel.
"I may go home at once, may I not?" she asked earnestly.
"I am afraid it will be necessary, dear. Your father says he would like you to come at once."
Nellie rose, as if bewildered for a moment with the unexpectedness of the tidings, and stood with nervous fingers gathering her work together.
"My child," said Aunt Ruth, putting her kind arms round her shoulders, "this is a heavy trial; but we must all ask for strength to bear it, and for her precious life to be spared if possible."
"Is it so bad as that?" Nellie said once more; and then she left the room as if stunned.
She went upstairs and began to collect her things together, while Aunt Ruth followed, and gently helped her, saying nothing, however.
"When is the train?" asked Nellie, looking up once, as if only just awakened from a dream.
"At 12 o'clock; there is no hurry, and the pony carriage is ordered."
"Thank you," she answered mechanically.
"I have sent down to Maude Elliot to be kind enough to see you safely off, dear."
"Oh, thank you," said Nellie. And when she had placed the last few things in the box, the maid came to put on the cord.
"Would you like to walk down and say good-bye to Mrs. Elliot, dear?" asked Aunt Ruth. "She has been very kind to you?"
"Very kind," answered Nellie; "and if there is time—"
"Abundance of time; it is only eleven o'clock now. You need not return here, the pony carriage shall call for you at half-past eleven."
Before she went downstairs, Nellie softly entered Hope's room.
"Going out?" said Hope sleepily; then opening her eyes, "Why, Nellie, you look sad, dear; what is it?"
"I can't explain," she answered hurriedly; "mamma is ill, and I am going home."
Hope took her hand, but beyond an exclamation of dismay, knew not what to say.
"I could not bear to go without thanking you for all your kindness; but I'm afraid I have disturbed you."
"Not at all; but, Nellie, don't you mention kindness, for you know it has been all on your side. I shall never forget you."
Nellie kissed her, and was already at the door, when suddenly she came to the bedside again, and said hesitatingly, "Could you spare me one or two of these wild rosebuds to take home?"
"Certainly; but take some nice flowers out of the garden, Nellie. Pick some before you go; these are worth nothing to those."
"I would like these best," she said, "as a remembrance of yesterday."
She placed two or three in her little travelling-basket, and with one more good-bye, hurriedly left the room.
Mrs. Arundel and Aunt Ruth stood waiting for her in the drawing room, and she was clasped in her grandmamma's arms.
"My dear child," she said, "my dear child, I have enjoyed having you; we shall think of you, and pray for you constantly. Good-bye."
"I can't half thank you," said Nellie, brokenly; "but I have had such a nice time. Dear Aunt Ruth, I wanted to say lots of things to you."
"Yes, darling; but we must bow to our Father's will."
So she left them, and as she hastened down the hill to Mrs. Elliot's, she felt as if all the springs of her life were dried up.
She turned in at the gate, and almost ran against Maude and Wilmot, who were coming out to take her to the station.
They needed no explanations, as they already knew the bad news that morning's post had brought.
Wilmot silently shook hands, and Maude kissed her warmly.
"It is a sad good-bye," said Nellie, trying to speak calmly, as she met Mrs. Elliot, "and you must forgive me for not saying all I would wish; but I do thank you all for—for making me so welcome."
Mrs. Elliot assured her it had given them much pleasure to know her; and then Nellie went over to the sofa where Alice lay, looking pale and suffering.
"Is it very bad?" she asked kindly.
"Oh, I feel so wretched, Miss Arundel."
"Poor child, I know you must; but," she whispered, "be patient; it helps us to think that Jesus knows all our sorrows and sufferings, doesn't it?"
"Even my bad foot?" asked Alice, looking up.
"Even that. Don't forget, dear."
Alice nodded, and in another moment the carriage was there, and Nellie was gone.
The three driving together did not say many words. Their thoughts would have been hard to interpret.
When they were walking up and down the station waiting for the train, Wilmot said to Nellie:
"I should like to think this is not a parting, Miss Arundel. May I, do you think, come and call upon you when I return to town?"
"I have no doubt papa would be pleased, if dear mamma is well enough," answered Nellie, hardly knowing what she ought to say.
"I shall come then. One does not make friends to lose them directly; and I hope we have become friends?"
He looked in her face, so pale and sorrowful; and then he remembered the face he had looked upon in the water yesterday.
Nellie remembered too, and a faint colour overspread her features.
"You saved my life," she said gently and gravely; "I can never forget that."
"Nor I," he answered; and both were silent.
"Here's the train," said Maude.
"Good-bye," said Wilmot, taking her hand.
"Good-bye," said Nellie, "good-bye, dear Maude."
When she seated herself in the train, she found herself alone, and could indulge in the luxury of being able to weep unseen. By-and-by, patience and trust reasserted themselves, and she checked her bitter tears, remembering that she would be unfit to help them at home if she arrived with a headache.
Then she thought all at once that she had not had opportunity to get any little presents for them, as she had intended, and she could not help having a good cry over this, before she finally put away her tears and determined to be peaceful.
"He will help me," she thought sorrowfully; "and He will help us all to bear His will. But, oh, mamma, mamma! How could I have left you?"
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REST.
WHEN Nellie arrived in London that afternoon, she was met at the station by Arthur. And on her eager enquiry for their mamma, his answer was boy-like and abrupt—
"As bad as can be."
No need to dwell on that ride home in the cab. When they drew up at the door, Nellie gathered her things together and hastened up the steps, only longing to keep calm, and to be able to do what might be wanted.
Simmons opened the door and welcomed her, but it was with a face so altered and anxious that Nellie asked no questions, but went immediately upstairs.
Just outside the drawing room door she met Ada coming down to greet her.
"Dear Nellie," she said, commanding herself with great effort, "mamma is very ill, papa told me to say. Will you take off your things and come in as if you had not been away."
Nellie did as she was told, but dared not venture into the nursery on her way up. She could hear hushed voices, and the little clatter of tea-cups; but she feared lest the sight of her should raise a shout, and she passed into her room.
In a minute more, a little footstep was heard entering, and Netta, with a woebegone face, stood at her side holding a cup of tea.
"Mary sent you this, Nellie," she said, looking up shyly, and hardly expecting to be kissed.
She was folded in her sister's arms; but she soon managed to say sedately, "Mary says she cannot leave baby, but you are on no account to go down till you have eaten this piece of bread and butter and had your tea."
"Thank her, dear, very much. I will do as she advises."
"She says dear mamma does not know you are come, so there is no hurry; and you will feel all the better for it."
Netta withdrew, having discharged her message, and Nellie swallowed her tea mechanically, hardly knowing what she was doing.
Then glancing in the glass, more by habit than because she thought of it, to see that she was neat, she was startled to find herself ghastly pale.
"What shall I do?" she mentally ejaculated. "I shall frighten them all."
She knelt down by her bed for an instant. She knew not what to say, and no words would form themselves in her mind beyond a cry of, "Help me, oh, help me!" Then she rose, and slowly went down to her mamma's room.
How still the house was inside, and what a roar the passing cabs and vehicles made! Nellie stood outside on the mat till the wild beating of her heart should cease. She could not pray, but her thoughts went towards God nevertheless—her only Refuge.
At last she opened the door softly and entered. The room was shaded from the glare of the June sunshine, and seemed quiet and peaceful.
The first thing she saw was Ada, sitting in the window working, and then her glance took in the rest of the room; her mamma lying in a wrapper on the sofa, and her father seated by her, with her hand in his.
Mrs. Arundel's eyes turned directly towards Nellie as she entered, and she held out her hand, saying very faintly, "I am glad you are come, darling."
She kissed the ashy pale cheek, and then bent to greet her father, who rose and gave her his seat, himself leaving the room.
Mrs. Arundel did not speak for some time, and Nellie sat silently by her.
All this was very hard for her to understand; it had never been explained, and she could only wonder at it all in a sort of terrible dream.
Presently Ada got up, and taking a cup from a small night-lamp, she fed their mamma with two or three spoonfuls of some nourishing broth.
Mrs. Arundel after this seemed to rouse herself a little, and said to Nellie:
"We did not expect this, dear, so soon; but God knows best, Nellie."
Nellie pressed her hand, but could not trust herself to speak.
"I am glad you are come, dear. I trust them all to you. You will do your best for them, Nellie?"
"Indeed I will, dear mamma, if—"
"Yes, dear, I understand; if I am taken away. We will try to talk of it calmly. Papa says there is just a possibility, but only a little, of my recovery, and I should feel happier to say what I wish now."
She spoke very low, but quite clearly and collectedly:
"The pain has been dreadful, Nellie; but it is better now; and while dear papa is away, I will tell you what I want."
Ada had turned her back and dropped her work in her lap, and now sat with her arms resting on the table and her face looking out into the square, of which, however, she saw nothing.
"Nellie dear, you must comfort papa. You must remind him that the time will be very short before we meet again. You must do all you can to cheer him. Not at first, dear—" She paused; then gathering breath again, "But after a while; not by forgetting, Nellie, but by remembering—remembering how happy we have been, and how soon we shall meet again. We have not tried to forget your own mother, have we, Nellie?"
"No, indeed; never, dear mamma."
"No; and so I do not want you to banish my name, but think of meeting me and her so very soon—, so very soon!"
The soft voice ceased, and Nellie looked towards Ada in dismay; for a death-like faintness seemed to overspread the features. Ada hastily rose and again administered the restorative.
"Thank you, dear," said her mother, looking upon her, oh, with what love! "Kiss me, Ada."
Ada bent down and gave the required kiss, but retreated again to the table, and took up her old station there.
Mrs. Arundel stretched out her hand for Nellie's, and again began to speak.
"Then there are our dear children. Take care of Ada and Arthur, my elder ones. Guard them, if you can, from the wicked world."
She paused, and looking upwards, seemed to be praying; and Nellie heard the words softly whispered, "I pray not that Thou shouldst take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldst keep them from the evil."
"He will care for them, Nellie. And my little ones, teach them to love Jesus. If I knew I were saying my last word on earth, it would be, 'Teach them to love Jesus.'"
"My little Tom! Nellie, I don't feel anxious about him; only so afraid of what he will suffer for a little while without me; but it may not be long. I hope for him it will not be long."
"Then my poor little baby boy. But I know you and Ada will care for him, and teach him of Jesus; will you not, Ada?"
Ada gave the promise she asked for, in a tone which was almost hoarse in its effort to be calm, and then turned away again, unable to bear it.
At last Nellie gathered courage to whisper a few words of comfort. "Dear mamma," she said with infinite tenderness, "as you dealt with the dead, so will I try to deal with you. I will faithfully do my best, God helping me, to fulfill all your wishes, even as you did what my own mother would have wished.
"I shall never, never forget your love. Now take comfort; and while it breaks my heart even to say it, yet let me assure you, Ada and I will do all we can to fill your place."
Nellie could say no more. The tender words were said with a throat that seemed to ache intolerably; and then she could only bend down, and kiss the white hand that lay in hers, over and over again.
Mrs. Arundel seemed satisfied, and fell quietly asleep as they watched her.
Ada beckoned to Nellie to go down; and just at this moment Nurse Raymond stole in, and made signs to the same effect; so she gently slipped her hand from the loosening clasp, and left the room, descending to the dining-room.
There she found her father alone, drinking a cup of tea. How altered he looked. Nellie hardly dared to glance at him, but came forward, and sat down at the table.
"I told nurse to take your place, dear, for a few minutes, that I might speak to you," said her father.
Nellie was going to ask him a question about it; but now that the urgent need for calmness was removed her strong command over herself gave way, and throwing herself into her father's arms she wept as if her heart would break.
He did nothing to check her; only pressed her closely to him, and whispered from time to time "Poor Nellie; poor little daughter; poor little dear," over and over again.
At last the violence of her grief subsided, and she remembered her father's share in this sorrow. She raised herself, and began wiping away her tears.
"Tell me all," she said at last.
"It was a fright," answered her father, "which developed the disease which I feared existed; a shock. They were carrying little Tom downstairs, and one of his bearers slipped. It was only a stumble; but just enough to make a commotion, and to cause Tom to give a half-scream. She seemed to bear it pretty well for an hour or two, and then—" Dr. Arundel paused.
"When was it? When did this happen?"
"Three days ago. I wrote at once to your grandmamma; but I had no time to explain then. I have written again since."
"Could nothing be done?" asked Nellie, looking hopelessly up in her father's face, and knowing her question was vain, even while she put it.
"Nothing more than has been done, dear child. Two physicians have been to see her; but they both know that the heart is in a very critical state."
"Dear papa," said Nellie, hesitating, and laying her head once more on his shoulder, "we still can pray. Perhaps it may be God's will to hear us."
"Yes, my dear, I do pray, and I know He answers. He is not far off, Nellie; not far off, my child, but very, very near; so near, that I feel His love, and am sure—"
"Sure?" she whispered, questioningly.
"That He will be with us even unto the end."
Nellie's head nestled closer to the beloved breast; but she could say no more. In presence of that faith, and in anticipation of that sorrow, no words of hers could be adequate.
At last her father stooped and kissed her fondly.
"I must go up now, Nellie. Nurse Raymond will sit up part of the night; but I shall be with her for the present."
"Could not I sit up? I should like to so much."
"No, dear; your strength will be needed for the care of the house. We must have all things as straight as we can, if for nothing else, than that she may know it is so."
Nellie was too downcast to do anything but acquiesce; indeed, she knew what her father said was right. She could not do everything, and there was wisdom in saving herself for greater duties.
"Papa," said Ada entering, with a face which was almost despairing, "poor little Tom is crying so upstairs. He does not like to ask to come to his usual place in mamma's room; but Mary says he fretted all last night."
"I will see about it," said Dr. Arundel as he went out.
"I can't talk," said Ada, without looking at Nellie, "so you will not mind. I feel as if I had no head and no heart."
She sat down stonily at the table and cut some bread and butter, pushing the loaf towards her sister, saying in a low voice, "Eat."
Then they were both silent. What could they say? The blow was too fresh and too heavy to allow of words. Arthur came in, and began his tea, like them, in silence. After they had eaten as much as they could force themselves to swallow, Ada proposed that they should go upstairs again.
When they noiselessly re-entered the sick-room, they found their mamma in bed, and beside her, with a white, patient little face, was Tom, resting his head on her pillow.
Dr. Arundel had found him prepared for bed in the nursery, and had asked him if he could trust himself to be calm, if taken to his mother? "For a great deal depends on calmness, Tom. She has been asking for you, and I should like you to be with her, if you can promise."
"I think I can, papa," he had said; "and you don't know how bad it is to be right away from her."
"Yes, dear, I do know," he answered.
So little Tom was carried down, and his mother had placed her hand on her pillow, and said faintly:
"May he, papa?"
And Dr. Arundel had not had the heart to refuse.
Arthur followed his sisters upstairs, and sat down by his mother's side.
"Dear Arthur," she whispered softly, "will you remember a text I have been thinking of for you?"
"I will try, mother," he whispered in return.
"This is what it is, 'Fear not; I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'"
"I will not forget, mother," he said, and as he uttered the words, he felt it was good-bye.
"Are the little ones in bed, Nellie?" she asked, as Nellie came and stood by her.
"Not quite."
"And baby?"
"Just ready for bed."
"I should like to kiss them for good-night, dear."
Nellie went up at once, and the little white-robed dressing-gowned flock stole in.
Mrs. Arundel kissed Netta first, and softly said, "God bless you, my child!" And she was immediately drawn away by a sign from her father.
So they were all kissed till it came to the baby's turn. Dr. Arundel took him from Mary, and lifted him over the bed.
"Let me hold him," she said, stretching out her arms.
She folded him in a close embrace, and it seemed as if her arms would never unclasp. "God bless my child!" she said at last, as she had done to the others, and let him go.
Dr. Arundel went with him to the door; then, unable to bear his grief, carried the child upstairs, and waited till he was calm.
When the little ones were gone, and the door had closed on them, their mother turned round in the bed and hid her face.
Tom lay with wide staring eyes, battling with himself to keep his promise, and succeeding; for when his mother put out her hand to take his, he was able to clasp it quietly and to whisper, "'He is able to keep;' mamma, dear."
"Yes," she answered with a sob; "able to keep that which I have committed to Him against that day."
"I meant that," said Tom.
So she fell asleep quietly, resting her weary heart on those blessed words.
They sat silently by her for some time, but presently Dr. Arundel whispered to them to go to bed.
Ada came and stood by the bedside and looked down on her mother; then, turning away, she left the room in obedience to her father's wish.
"I will stay with her till two o'clock," said Dr. Arundel to the nurse, "then you can come."
He sat down by her, and the only sound within was the ticking of his watch, while without, the roar and rumble of the great city went on the same as ever.
Every half-hour he was forced to disturb her, to take the required food or medicine; but he allowed her to rest again without rousing her to speak.
When, after an hour or two's quiet sleep, she opened her eyes, she found only her husband by her and little Tom breathing softly on her pillow.
"How little we thought, dear, it could be like this," she said.
"How do you feel, love, now?" he asked.
"Oh; so very tired, but so happy! It will not be long before I see Jesus."
"Not in pain?"
"Oh, no," she whispered; "only peace. I did not know that it could be so; that He would be able to make me willing."
"He is 'able' for all things, my precious one," he said tenderly, clasping her hand.
"Yes, dearest," she answered, laying her cheek on the loved hand which had supported her for so many years. "Yes, dearest, He is able to keep—you, and me, and them."
She fell asleep again, while Dr. Arundel sat on in the quiet hours, still with her face on his hand.
His practised eyes saw now that there was no hope.
Slowly, slowly, life ebbed away.
As he watched, she gave one sigh, and he knew her ransomed spirit had passed from earth, to be with Him whom she had loved and served all her life.